


Parable of the Heart

by stuckybarnes



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Asperger's Sherlock, Author Is Sleep Deprived, Author loves to chat in the Comments, Autistic Sherlock, BAMF John, Doctor John Watson, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Hurt Sherlock, Hurt/Comfort, John is a Saint, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Mrs. Hudson - Freeform, Mrs. Hudson Ships It, Mycroft Being Mycroft, Mycroft IS the British Government, Mycroft Worries, Original Character(s), Protective Mycroft, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, Sherlock is a Mess, The Author Regrets Nothing, like seriously come on, look ok don't fight me on asperger's sherlock, sensory defensiveness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-04
Updated: 2017-02-26
Packaged: 2018-09-20 16:59:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9501056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stuckybarnes/pseuds/stuckybarnes
Summary: "Yes, from what John has occasionally seen, Sherlock usually sleeps on his side or his belly, angular and compact like an origami bird. Except he isn’t home tonight."This whole story sprouted from the simple fact that I thoroughly enjoy hurt-comfort Johnlock fics, and equally enjoy Sherlock occasionally being stuck and making mistakes during cases. Inspired from the “it’s never twins” remarks in series four.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, folks. I've been slowly convincing myself to write a Johnlock fic for about four years now, and have finally pushed myself to do it. I hope you all enjoy!
> 
> Read the end notes for more information!

John Watson sleeps on his back; it’s the only way he feels like he can breathe. Like many other army veterans, John finds that sleeping on his plush bed is more uncomfortable and foreign than sleeping in sandy ditches or paper-thin beds in the barracks of Afghanistan. He feels like he is sinking endlessly in this bed, as if the downy sheets are smothering him, choking and gasping until the bed swallows him up with a resound  _ pop.  _ Sleeping on his back is his only respite. 

He wonders if this will ever stop.

In the brevity of which John has known Sherlock, he’s learned that Sherlock sleeps very differently than himself. Often times, Sherlock will drop wherever he sees fit to fall asleep, whether on his bed above the covers, or on their sofa, or even on the floor if he’s particularly exhausted or lost in thought.

Sherlock will sleep, without fail, one of two ways. On his side, with his arms and knees curled tightly to his chest, sheltered from the world around him. Or on his belly, with his arms tucked underneath him, entirely too compact for such a tall, slim man. Too many times now to count, John has had to help mend Sherlock, patch him round the delicate edges protecting his stubborn head, and right his crumpled paper until he looked like an origami bird once more.

When John occasionally checks on him before he sleeps himself, he always finds Sherlock’s face surrounded by a thick duvet, his stark black curls splayed over his pillow like serpentine ink blots. Sherlock does not concern himself over the squashy mattress that swallows up its inhabitants. He does not fret about being smothered by silken pillows.

Yes, from what John has occasionally seen, Sherlock usually sleeps on his side or his belly, angular and compact like an origami bird. Except, to John’s disquiet, he isn’t home tonight.

John supposes he shouldn't be surprised, given Sherlock’s irritation today. By late afternoon that January night, Sherlock had grown more restless than his usual self; prattling on about their current case.

Three days ago, a small bomb went off in a modern sciences and technologies exhibit in London. Mullioned windows had imploded, and a brilliant puce cloud of ash and fire rocketed passersby to the ground. It wasn’t strong enough to cause irreparable damage, but several people were rushed to Bart’s for concussions and grazes, and everyone fled the exhibit in panicked masses, which was all captured by security cameras adjacent to the exhibit.

With Scotland Yard at a loss for what to do, they unsurprisingly enlisted Sherlock, who, after examining the chaotic photos, found one man walking away from the building amid sprinting citizens, entirely unphased. The photos were time-stamped for 1:32 in the afternoon.

Sherlock promptly demanded photos from the nearest parking lot, in an attempt to track the singular stoic man’s movements. What he found was most interesting; time-stamped at 1:33 in the afternoon that same day, was another stoic man in an inconspicuous black car, across an entire yard and vast driveway. The two men were identical. Same clothes, same brow ridge and facial structure, same build. The same person from both a behavioral and anatomical standpoint, according to Sherlock, despite only a profile-view.

After that, the security tapes were damaged.

“White, early-to-mid-forties, muscular, hovering somewhere over six feet in height.” Lestrade droned, handing Sherlock the file for himself. “Do we think it’s terrorism-linked?” He asked, but Lestrade’s parse suggested that despite saying “we,” he relied solely on Sherlock’s answer.

“In a way, obviously.” Sherlock said lowly, his brows furrowed, not pulling his eyes from the file.  “But he was most likely born and bred here, has no known affiliation with any nationality-fueled terror organization.  Considering the bomb was placed in a modern sciences exhibit, it’s much more likely that this man is anti-technology. Until he’s caught, I suggest monitoring expensive or new scientific organizations.”

Suffice it to say, it had Sherlock incredibly interested as to how one man could be in two places, only a minute apart from each other.

John opted to stay silent, because after one suggestion, Sherlock had chided, “It’s not  _ twins,  _ John. It’s never twins; you should know that by now.”

Two days later, yesterday, the man was caught, and Scotland Yard were resigned that the man had simply run across the parking lot and into the car in the other photo, much to Sherlock’s displeasure.

This morning, they had spent all of four hours attempting to sprint across the desolate stretch of parking lot in under a minute, to no avail. Even Sherlock, slim and long-legged, couldn’t make it in under a minute, and the man in the photo was considerably broader, ergo heavier, than him. After tracking down an old friend of Sherlock’s, they returned later with a sizeable borrowed Greyhound dog called Pip.

From the last known area the man in the first photo was standing, the dog had made it from the flower-lined entrance to the other end of the parking lot in  _ exactly _ one minute.

Upon leashing the hound again, patting its head, and returning to the entrance of the exhibit building, Sherlock seemed even more pensive. “I was right. Don’t you see? If a breed known for his speed made it through an empty lot in one minute, how could a human man make it through a then  _ crowded _ lot in the same amount of time, weighed down by his own size?” He mused, eyes alight.

Despite Sherlock’s obvious irritation, John had the sneaking suspicion he was thoroughly enjoying this. “It simply makes no sense. He would have to be faster than a running breed of dog.” He hummed, narrowing his snowstorm eyes.  “I’m  _ missing  _ something.” He bit, idly stroking the Greyhound’s silken head. “I hate missing things. Makes me feel boring. Like the rest of you lot.” The dog looked up at him with empathetic eyes.  John ignored Sherlock’s insult-esque musings - he knew Sherlock didn’t actually mean to be brash.

John licked his lips. “Sherlock -”

“If you say  _ twins  _ again…”

The dog trotted genially by Sherlock’s side as they left the ash-littered lot, occasionally nipping at the hand gripping his leash affectionately. “Good boy, Pip. You were essential to this case. Far more so than John was.”

“Oy.” John remarked reproachfully, picking up his pace. Sherlock grinned.

The rest of the day was spent with Sherlock in deep thought, consciousness hidden away in the mercurial depths of his mind. John knew there was no point in convincing Sherlock to tell Lestrade that he essentially disproved that the man had made it to the car in a single minute until he figured out  _ how _ he pulled off being in two places at once.  

Now, John returns from the kitchen and stands in the doorway of Sherlock’s bedroom. His room is quite barren and bereft of much individuality, considering their living room is cluttered with cases and files and experiments. The duvet was a rich navy blue, bunched up at the foot of the bed from where Sherlock probably kicked it off in frustration. Behind the door rests a red-tinted harpoon, sated crimson lining the wound rope. A simple, dark bookshelf sits directly across from the foot of the plain bed.  Most of the books were old, downtrodden things with yellowing pages and heavy creases in their spines. John could count at least five foreign languages lining those shelves.

What strikes John to be the most peculiar are the scratches in his bed frame and headboard. They exposed the ragged, unpressed wood beneath the dark varnished frame. Most are right above where Sherlock’s pillow is, but some are on the bed frame itself. Now, John Watson is no Sherlock Holmes, but he knows pain. He knows the slow burn pain, the flashing, bright pain, the agonizing pain.  The scratch marks here on his bed are from desperate clawing gestures. Blood has even seeped into some of the exposed wood.

John has been in Sherlock’s room before this, of course, but they had been fleeting moments, where he couldn’t truly take in the space of the brilliant detective. The times he’s been here previously were usually with Sherlock present, and were usually far too important for him to be observing his surroundings. He had been here when Irene Adler had drugged Sherlock, and John had tipped him into his bed on his side, watched him for any worrying behavior.  He had been here on the days when Sherlock was most likely to seek out drugs again, and John spent hours on end simply talking to Sherlock, or wading through thick silence while Sherlock fidgeted or rocked or shouted obscenities at John for more opiates. The latter hurt John more - seeing a man so brilliant become so human, so  _desperate._

So, yes, he had been in Sherlock’s room before, but never when there were no other pressing matter to attend to, never when he could simply appreciate the space he was in.

John stirs slightly at the piercing whistle of the tea kettle, the deafening scream of a haunted child.  

“Yes, alright.” He huffs in annoyance, as if the kettle should be quieter given the hour of night. John pads back out of the room on cold hardwood floors, and into the kitchen. He sifts through random experiments that Sherlock has strewn around, and walks hastily past a bin on the counter, on top of which a note reads  _ DO NOT TOUCH, JOHN. DANGER. _

“But you couldn’t leave me a note on where you’ve wandered off to, hm?” John hums to himself, as if chiding Sherlock personally. Logically, he knows Sherlock has most likely gone out for a long walk to think, or gone back to examine the crime scene. Logically, he knows Sherlock will probably come home in the morning dragging his feet from working his brain all through the night, and collapse on the nearest semi-flat surface for a good sleep before continuing again.

But the smaller, less realistic part of his thinking is nagging at him, pulling at him until he has to acknowledge it. John has half a mind to shoot Mycroft a text; he'd probably find Sherlock in seconds. Because, as possible as it is for Sherlock to take a walk to ease his frustration, it’s also possible for Sherlock to have gone out seeking drugs.

A little voice in his head tells him this is silly.   _ Sherlock doesn’t need any further mental stimulants or opiates when he has a case; the case gets him just as high. _

But, still.

Still.

Pouring his tea is routine. Splash of creamer on the bottom. No sugar. Pour in the steaming water. Earl Gray baggy in. 

He walks back out silently with his cup and saucer, and resigns to sit in his seat, bathed in soft light from the kitchen. Sherlock’s empty chair across from him is drenched in darkness, practically dripping with shadow. He sips his tea, stares out the window at Baker Street below him.

Some time later, minutes or hours, he isn’t sure, his cup has been emptied, and the window panes have become opaque and frost-nipped in the freezing night air.

With a tired grunt, he pushes himself off the chair he’s slowly been sinking into, drops his teacup into the sink, and shuffles back to his own room. He stays asleep this time, with no nightmares plaguing him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading my first chapter and leaving such kind comments! I hope you enjoy this chapter just as much.

Sherlock will go to great lengths to ensure his accuracy involving a case.  He will work tirelessly to prove himself correct, to leave no room for argument. He will forego food, sleep, and communication to solve something others cannot.

This is not altruism, and this is not a hero-complex, no matter how much John would like to believe Sherlock is a hero. This is mainly for his own uncouth benefit.

He needs to have answers, he needs the tangibility that solving a case with each variable accounted for provides him - much in the same way science provides him solace. He craves the mystery, the distraction, the constant brainwork.  

People have the audacity to shame him for this, and yet plead for his services. They cannot perceive how Sherlock can distance himself from such horrid, vile scenarios and focus solely on solving them, entirely detached from the victims. People project their own fears onto him, and alienate him when he does not reciprocate their discomfort.  Sherlock finds this easy enough to dismiss; he was alienated and analyzed as a child enough for him to grow resilient to it in adulthood.

His urge to solve this particular case is no different from the others.  It eventually ignited interest in his mind, his eyes brightening and his face ghosting in a curious grin. But Sherlock almost  _ didn’t _ take the case; Lestrade has a horrible habit of beckoning him for every miniscule case, and a bomb going off in a sciences exhibit was so dull it made him groan.

But, one man in two places only a minute apart from each other, a considerable distance away?  _ Incredibly _ curious. And it made absolutely no sense.

Capturing the man at fault was enough for the dull crowd at Scotland Yard, of course, but it wasn’t for Sherlock. Despite having caught the bomber, it  _ still _ didn’t explain how he managed to be in two places at once. Did that not interest them?

“Sherlock, some people just… run fast.” Lestrade had said feebly.

“Gavin, surely you aren’t  _ really _ that dim.” Sherlock gave him a withering look.

Lestrade pursed his lips. “It’s  _ Greg.” _ He chided, and Sherlock narrowed his eyes in disbelief. “And there isn’t any  _ proof _ of two people, other than photographs taken a minute apart, because you’ve already shut down the twin theory. So we caught the bomber. He admitted to it, even! That’s all that matters.”

That’s all that mattered, apparently. Case closed. Except, it couldn't possibly be  _ cased closed, _ because there was a variable unaccounted for somewhere, there was missing data, and Sherlock needed to find it.

He had ignored the cavalcade of sleepy reassurances from John, and had eventually slipped past his room once he had gone to bed. He shrugged on his coat, jogged down the creaky narrow staircase, and out of the door of 221B Baker Street.

When Sherlock first left their flat that night in the wee morning hours, he had walked idly for quite some time with no attention for the world around him, introducing and dismissing ideas and experiments in his beleaguered Mind Palace for several hours.  

He collapsed onto a park bench under the dark blanket of night, his fingers clasped between his shaking legs, mimicking the familiar gesture of holding a cigarette. It would be easy to buy a pack right now, or to take one measly cigarette from one of the many homeless people he has at his disposal scattered around London.

But John would be mad. And then Mycroft would surely ceremoniously arrive at their flat and give him that unctuous, withering  _ look.  _ That big brother superior-rank, disappointed,  _ “Oh, Sherlock,” _ look.  __ And that would only make Sherlock want to irritate Mycroft further, out of pure spite.

In a fit of desperate agitation, he abruptly pulls himself up from the park bench. He determinedly makes his way to the modern sciences and technology exhibit.

This had not been a good idea, as it turned out, and Sherlock was admittedly  _ wrong. _

He arrived at the abandoned crime scene, the remnants of police tape littering the leaf-scattered museum walkway and parking lot. Sherlock pulled the lapel of his coat tighter around him against the brisk January wind.  He started at the museum walkway, inspecting the ground for weak spots that could’ve let to a shortcut to the parking lot, to explain how the man could have been in two places at once. It was hardly a likely scenario, but Sherlock had, at this point, exhausted all other feasible options.

He shook his head upon finding nothing, and walked briskly to the parking lot, eyes narrowed at the floor the whole time. There was nothing out of the ordinary with the ground, no obscure hidden passages or escape routes. Therefore, the perpetrator  _ must _ have  _ somehow _ shouldered his way past a crowded museum walkway and sprinted to the other end of the parking lot  _ and _ gotten inside the car in a single  _ minute. _

He stood on the exact parking spot that the car with the identical man was parked in. There was no faulty floor or visible shortcuts there, either. Sherlock steepled his fingers under his chin in thought before swiping his hands away, scattering with them discarded imaginary solutions from his vision.

He turned in disappointment and began to make his way back the way he came, in search of a spot to hail a taxi back to 221B.

He wasn’t sure why, perhaps it was an errant sound that didn’t belong in the middle of the night, or perhaps it was Sherlock’s brain working faster than he could filter his thoughts. But nevertheless, he turned around once more.

A large, dark shadow was caught in his periphery, hunched over the very parking spot Sherlock was in moments ago. The darkness drenched him too drastically for Sherlock to make out features, but his profile was  _ undeniably _ that of the man they had in custody.

So, yes, there was a variable unaccounted for. And there certainly was missing data, of course. But that unaccounted variable, that missing data, was a  _ twin. _

_ “A twin.”  _ Sherlock hisses now.  _ John must never find out about that, _ he thinks immediately. He’d never stop prattling on about how he was right; Sherlock could already imagine John’s satisfaction.

The figure’s head snaps toward Sherlock now, and in a matter of seconds, he starts sprinting away. Sherlock is quick to chase after him, tossing his coat behind him to free his legs.

They chase each other for several blocks, down dingy streets and gum-riddled pavement. The twin barrels into a street vendor's cart, and Sherlock launches himself over it, close behind.  Visualizing the streets of London in his mind, a smile dances on his lips when he realizes the man is about to corner himself in an alley.

They both skitter to a stop, and Sherlock huffs out a breath, reaching into his pants pocket. “Right. Well. Now that you’ve made the mistake of treeing yourself in, I expect that you’ll be wise and stay put while I tell Lestrade that it was, in fact, a  _ twin.  _ If you choose not to remain still, however, please have the utmost assurance that I will make your life a waking nightmare when I find you once more. _ ”  _ Sherlock says calmly, unlocking his phone with his eyes still trained on the large man in front of him.

“Both twins willing to commit the same crime, for the same cause, one waiting in the getaway car? _ Highly unlikely. _ ” Sherlock muses, but his eyes are bright in interest. “Were you both secluded as children? Always together? Did you share a traumatic experience that enhanced a preexisting codependency?” He asks, and even though the man doesn’t respond, the clenching of his jaw gives him away.

“Hm.” Sherlock nods. “Why did you come back to the crime scene, then? Your brother is in jail, Scotland Yard is convinced he acted alone. You were home free. Unless, you must have left something incriminating at the -” Sherlock presses his phone to his ear, right as the twin storms him.

Sherlock is knocked to the ground before he has time to dodge his tackle. Without the padding of his coat, he feels every piece of rubble and shard of dirty glass digging into his back and shoulders. The twin shoves a knee between his legs and Sherlock’s breath dies in his throat, gritting his teeth. The twin quickly lands a punch to his jaw, and his head knocks back onto dirty asphalt. Sherlock bends one knee and kicks himself forward enough to push the twin off of him with his legs. The twin is much larger than him, more muscular, too, and Sherlock uses his own lithe frame to his advantage.  

_ If only he could see clearly; _ they can hardly make each other out in the isolated darkness of the alley, but Sherlock punches what must be his nose, if his height and the audible  _ crack _ is any indication. When the twin doubles over to blot his nose, Sherlock moves in close and shoves his elbow between the twin’s shoulder blades. The air rushes out of him and he collapses to the floor.

Sherlock rights himself and looks down at the crumpled man on the ground, smoothing down his shirt and sighing. “That was cumbersome.” He laments, looking resentfully at the man below for a moment before finding his phone on the ground.

“Please do shut up. Preferably now.” Sherlock mutters when he hears scratching from the twin.

Sherlock’s eyes narrow hastily at the brightness of his phone, and before his eyes could adjust, the twin pulls himself up just high enough to slam an empty glass bottle against the back of his head.

The world tilts, and Sherlock drops to the ground, his vision tunneling dangerously. The phone skitters out of reach. Sherlock can _ hear _ more than see the twin stomping his foot down onto it. Before escaping, the twin lands two sharp kicks to his stomach. There was clearly no skill put into it, and two bomb-making twins don’t fit the profile of someone who would physically fight another unless absolutely necessary; bomb-makers work  _ behind  _ scenes. Despite this, the man kicks him roughly out of spite before fleeing.

Sherlock uses his remaining strength to press searching fingers to the back of his head. They don’t come away bloody, which is only a slight reassurance given his current predicament. His vision blurs and Sherlock holds his stomach tentatively, groaning lowly. Without the protection of his coat, the cold air bites into him relentlessly.

The sun has peeked out brilliantly from behind dingy clouds, the early morning light highlighting wayward dust in the air for all of five merciful minutes, before sooty clouds cover the sky and thick droplets of rain shock his face. The smell of petrol and garbage pervades his senses, and the rain washing over him is enough to make him float loosely in and out of consciousness.

_ Unsavory, _ he thinks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked that!  
> DON'T FORGET TO LEAVE COMMENTS AND KUDOS!
> 
> instagram: petr.prkr  
> tumblr: scruffydun

**Author's Note:**

> I HOPE YOU ALL ENJOYED THE FIRST CHAPTER! DON'T FORGET TO LEAVE COMMENTS AND KUDOS!
> 
> Note: Sherlock's emotional computation and sensory input are quite similar to mine, and so I'd be happy to answer any question you may have from reading this, or otherwise. 
> 
> follow my instagram: petr.prkr + space.cadebt


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